


Episode 1: Pilot

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: Welcome To Seasoning City [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale, モブサイコ100 | Mob Psycho 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Attempt at Humor, Bugs & Insects, Dark Humor, Entomophobia, Ghosts, How Do I Tag, Infatuation, Inspired by Welcome to Night Vale, Just really really doesn't like em, Mob is mentioned - Freeform, Night Vale Community Radio, Nothing major just thought I'd tag it, Other, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Reigen is scared of bugs, Spirits, Suicidal Thoughts, The Weather (Welcome to Night Vale), Trans Reigen Arataka, Typical Night Vale Violence, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Welcome to Night Vale News Program Format, canon-typical weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Reigen Arataka is a radio show host in a strange desert city.  Odd things happen in Seasoning, the oddest of which is probably Reigen himself, the self-proclaimed 'greatest psychic of this century'.  How else do you explain his calm and practical guide to navigating the places where the Veil gets Thin?  Or his pink tie, for that matter?The start of a short, episodic series, this story is about a man who falls in love with another man, inexplicably and inevitably.  But is Serizawa really what he seems?  Is this city?  Is their world?  Stay tuned for the next episode!





	Episode 1: Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> You don’t need to have listened to WTNV to understand this fic, though there will be some easter eggs for podcast listeners. The fact that it is incomprehensible isn’t a bug—it’s a feature. Welcome to Night Vale is really just Like That.

Good morning! It’s Reigen Arataka, this century’s ‘greatest psychic’, here to welcome you to another of earth’s rotations under the flaming ball of gas that lights our days. And our nights. And the times in between. It’s getting hard to sleep, many report, but the sun is out today as well and things are looking up! I’m in love!

Before we get to that, it is my duty to share with you, dear listener, a message from the grains of sand and silica in the dry riverbed snaking through our sleepy city: watch, keep vigilant, and guard thine treasures with all ye have, for ye are off the edge of the map and here there be serpents.

Welcome… to Seasoning City.

***

Hello, listeners. To start off our day I have a notice from the City Spice Council reminding the normal, average citizen that dogs are not allowed in the dog park. People are not allowed in the dog park. The dog park is, and should be, empty of all living things. Unrelated, says City Council, is the fact that they are getting tired of cleaning up the offal. It’s been seven years. 

_You should know better by now_.

In a similar vein, the supermarket on Helix Street has been closed to new visitors as of nine PM yesterday evening. There’s just too much to explain, store officials say. Too much. Too _much_. If you are a repeat visitor needing to get in to acquire your weekly dose of peanut butter and naan bread, just whisper the password scribbled on the back of your last receipt to the greeter. They will let you pass through. Just don’t ask any… unusual questions.

And now, the news. Specifically, the news we’ve all been waiting for: a man who was locked in his house for fifteen years has come outside for the first time since just after the turn of the millennium, and let me be the first to tell you, he is a fine specimen of a supposedly human being. Dark, curly hair and a jawline made to die for, this man has been hidden from us for too long. 

Why was he hidden? What was he hiding? He says he is a scientist. Well… we have all been scientists at one point or another in our lives. But why now? Why here? And just what does he plan to do with all those breakers and humming electrical instruments in that lab he’s renting with all the others—the one next to Big Rico’s Takoyaki?

No one does sweets like Big Rico. **No one**.

In the spirit of intellectualism, I shall relate to you all further developments made in the curious case of the hermit scientist as soon as they become known to me.

On the other side of town, Old Woman Josie, who recently moved into the City Proper, says the angels have revealed themselves to her. Folks, we’ve been through this before—the only difference today is that the Black Angel seems to have divided in two like a cell dividing itself in two. That is two, count them, _two_ Black Angels, if that so happens to be important to you. The lightbulb that was touched by angels is still on the market—just contact Old Woman Josie, down by the Car Lot.

A new restaurant is opening downtown, in the ritzy part of the city. They are branded as sodium-fueled fiends, for the discerning consumer. 

Remember, sodium is an important part of any diet. Not only is it an electrolyte that helps maintain the balance of water molecules in your body, but it also acts as a natural repellent to many things… other. Just as human hair fends off pests in the garden, sodium chloride fends off pests in the inter-dimensional-and-unknowable-void. 

We take these things very seriously in Seasoning City.

Safety, safety, safety… not something you have to worry about when you’re the greatest psychic this side of the turn of the century. For all those out there looking for some tips and pointers from such a man, now is the time to open your ears and listen. 

Listen. 

_Listen to me_. 

The dunes are safe only from dawn to seven PM. Any time before, or after, and sometimes _during_ that window, the dunes are habitable only for those with incredibly strong psychic auras. It’s the rule of four H’s: the moment you start to see the _haze_ on the _horizon_, it’s time to _head_ _homeward_. 

Take your children. Run. If your children do not have a high enough sodium content in their diet, they _will_ start to speak in tongues. The Sheriff’s Secret Police Force does have scholars who can translate it, but the paperwork that comes along with the translation is, frankly, not worth the family heirloom you must hand over for their services.

In other news, an oil tanker went half-missing today during a planned route on the nearest lake. This is news only because the nearest lake is three hundred miles outside the limits of our city, and our news has never reported on phenomena past the dunes just outside the city limit. We never thought we’d care, and yet here we are.

Are you hurting? Aching? Are you even, perhaps, yearning? Dr. Takashima, of Extraordinary Pill fame, has just the thing! Find him waiting in the scrub brush, you know the one.

Reigen, you say. Dearest Reigen, light that shines on the pathways that lead us home—you’ve talked at length about everything but the one thing we want to hear. Trust me, listeners—I know your pain, and I am here to relieve it. I am an investigator at heart. My immense psychic abilities come secondary in the long term to my sense of curiosity and a heady need to be sated. When intrigue arises in our small city, I am at the forefront, relaying acts and deeds to the discriminating listener. As such it is my pleasure to inform you of the latest news of the most gorgeous man on earth and, possibly, beyond. That hermit turned scientist—a man we now know is named _Serizawa_ (and doesn’t that just roll off the tongue)—called a town meeting.

It’s true, dear listener—to see him in person is to experience the bliss of heavenly perfection, and the dread of the same, without regulation eye protection. His skin is a tone reminiscent of beautifully laid white cherrywood paneling—his eyes are deep, dark rivers feeding into themselves in an eternal dance, the ouroboros itself. He carried with him a simple white umbrella, though to call anything in his presence ‘simple’ is simply and overtly wrong.

The meeting began several minutes late. That is to say… it began quite on time for a town meeting. The usual snacks were provided—french fries, saltwater, and that good, home-baked fry bread that Old Woman Josie makes. This was, unfortunately, void of its usual application of an extra salt splash seeing as she still hasn’t mustered up the courage to ask her cosmic house guests just what they’ve done with her salt shaker. Angels, am I right?

Serizawa, nervous but courageous in his decision to speak despite those nerves, then informed us all that The President finds us very intriguing. After traveling the entire world looking for—and this part was hard to discern through Serizawa’s perfect stutter—_something_, The President decided that his efforts and scientific endeavors were best applied in conjunction with our humble city. This is, after all, The President’s home town—and we all know that one doesn’t just leave Seasoning City. 

One does not just Leave. 

Not really.

The President’s entourage then took down the names of every school-aged citizen, compiling them into a small, severe-looking black book that undoubtedly can mean nothing good for us. I fear for us. I fear for Serizawa. I fear for Seasoning City. I fear for anyone caught between what they know and what they don’t yet know that they don’t know.

To cease. Cessation. It is what we all wish for, in the aching loneliness of our collective sleepless nights. 

Vote Helena for mayor, and may all your wishes come to fruition.

I don’t like to bring up politics. I trust a politician about as far as I can throw him, her, or gentlethem. I am a radio show host, not an Olympic weight-lifter—you can imagine the short distance that would be. 

That being said, I have found that peppering in one or more campaign promotions gives me an eerie and underhanded sense of peace. It is, perhaps, due to the spirit of chaos that has been feeding off our collective minds in recent weeks. Not to worry—he’s basically harmless. We’ve sent our longest-standing and best intern, Mob, out to obtain a statement from the source himself. He’s just now returned, and… ah. Yes. I see. 

I’ve just now been handed a piece of paper slicked with ectoplasm. If anyone could find the meaning in this slimy and unappealing gibberish, it would be me, greatest psychic of this century. It seems, however, that there is no meaning to be had. A pity.

In accordance with ghost-spotting laws, it is my duty to inform you that in addition to this hungry geist there is not one, but _two_ buildings in the central square, not far from our dear radio station, that have been accused of housing Otherworldly Phenomena. First, a nondescript multi-level lesser gray skyscraper. The second? A nondescript multi-level lesser gray skyscraper just beside it, this one absolutely infested with… dare I say the word… _cockroaches_. 

The story goes a little something like this: once upon a time, a man saw a cockroach and was so frightened, so terrorized, by it’s disgusting, demonic visage that he leaped with all his strength and put his head through the ceiling, killing him instantly. He now haunts the place where he died, handing out horrible ceiling-related deaths to any living thing unlucky enough to cross his path.

Enough about him. The cockroach… a vile creature, murderer, the native predator of everything that is holy… is still on the loose. I cannot believe that we’ve let this monstrosity roam free. Indeed, may the devil welcome it to hell’s eternal torment sooner rather than later. The natural order of bugs and vermin turns my stomach. The only reason the station building stays on the ground is because it is weighed down by the millions of silverfish that reside in its walls and I, for one, find that abhorrent. Totally and utterly abhorrent. As soon as I find the being responsible I will have a very strong word with them.

We also received a press release about the opening of our brand new ski resort on the top of of the Cultural Tower. Made with ninety-nine percent post-consumer recycled materials and one percent unidentified mass, the ski resort is a fine experience to have. I’ve been there myself—the proprietors are only about as shady as the City Council, and have signage posted promising to return lost children within four to six business days. It was a delightful trip if I do say so myself.

There is some concern about the fact that there has never been even an inch of snow reported falling in Seasoning City or the surrounding area. That is a definite drawback, I agree. For instance, the ski slopes are currently populated solely by quail down. The Business Association did not provide any specific remedies for this problem, but they assured me that the new ski resort would be a big boost to Seasoning City nonetheless.

Maybe wait for a freak snowstorm to take us all by surprise for the full skiing experience.

[And now, the weather.](https://youtu.be/fVvj5ZQmj_I?list=PLjUOr6SklsIzVTglhKbZmqJyCWGZWfqM_)

Don’t tune out, dear listeners, for I have for you one more news story of our dearest and most beloved Serizawa and, in turn, his perfect hair. It curls ‘round his ears just so, and I believe it would feel simply like clouds in the hands of a celestial creature, fluffy and soft. I’d be positively green with envy if it weren’t for my grandmother’s silk tie. Pink suits me, you’ll find—just as Serizawa’s house clothes and crocs suit him.

To the meat, flesh, and bone of the issue: Serizawa has given us a warning. “Be vigilant, for He watches,” were the exact words he said to us. I shiver to think of his voice, the soothing timbre of every word spoken from those vocal cords. Be still, my beating heart.

As for the content of his message… we already are. Serizawa… if you’re listening, need I remind you that you were borne of this city? Fifteen years locked away does not and cannot erase the collective memory of the desert. Sand does not wash clean—it scrapes and abrades, leaving behind the white of sun-bleached bone in a summer that never ceases, for here it is always simmering and the light never dims. Sleep if you can, Serizawa—we will be awake and waiting for you come morning.

Today’s proverb is an oldie but a goodie: Before you judge another man, walk a mile in his shoes. Never give them back. They are yours, now, and his burden is your burden.

Until next time, dear listeners. This is Reigen Arataka, signing off.

***

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best, guys. WTNV is a masterpiece of suspense and imagination and I just hope I can capture a little bit of that incredible spirit in this series. Don't know when the next episode will be out, but I find comments very encouraging! Every time I get a comment I find the fortitude to write a few more words, haha.
> 
> The weather in this episode was the song I was listening to at the time. Also: if you see any glaring errors, please let me know!
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
